


Everything Will Be Right

by mistysinkat



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, M/M, Mental Instability, Mother-Son Relationship, Possession, cullrian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5063464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistysinkat/pseuds/mistysinkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pavus legacy will not be denied. At any cost, it must be protected and preserved. Dorian finds out just how far his mother is willing to go to do just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whole and Good and Mine

For a moment, all was still.

The witch waited, silent and serene against a backdrop of pleading whimpers, punctuated by howling curses. He was in pain. He was  _hurting_. For just a breath, a heartbeat, she faltered. Her bright gray eyes dulled for the briefest of moments, questioning her path – the way she knew was  _right_  and  _good_.

His hands, hands that were as elegant as her own, caught her eye, and she lost herself in their study. Slender yet strong, those fingers flexed and closed in upon themselves, struggling against the straps that bound them. Talented hands, tearing themselves apart in desperation, dripping with sweat and blood as the many rings he wore clicked and scraped. Hollow, the sound was.

But there was one ring that didn’t belong. It sat on the third finger of his left hand. Innocuous but vile, trivial but paramount, the plain gold band was all the more conspicuous next to its wildly ornate brethren.  

That ring. That horrible, worthless little trinket somehow demanded attention when it should have been afforded none. It was the sigil of everything that had gone wrong.

Too bright, it burned just to look at it. Her mind smoldered and turned to ash with its significance.

The bile rose in her throat then, and she savored the righteous anger that bubbled up in her chest.

It was heartening. It gave her the strength she needed to carry on.

“Now don’t fidget, my pet. It hurts so much more when you fidget,” she smiled as her body reanimated and she glided toward the struggling man bound to the altar before her. “Then again, my dear, you were always a nervous child, weren’t you?”

The man’s eyes, gray like her own, stared at her, wide and afraid. Red around the edges and running with a never ending stream of grief, they asked for a release. One she was glad to give him, though not the one he wanted. No, this wasn’t about his selfish wants. This was about what he  _needed_. What he  _lacked_.

And she would make sure he had it. Finally, he’d be full. Real.  _Right_.

With her help, of course. He needed her. He suffered even as he willfully rejected everything sacred. All these years of pain and abuse, he brought it on himself with his own stubborn pride. He needed her to end the misery.

In ways only she knew, he needed  _her_  to be complete.

The witch smiled sweetly as she tenderly brushed one sweat-soaked lock of dark hair from his forehead.

“My boy. My precious, sweet boy,” she crooned.

“Mother…” the man whispered, voice weak and breaking over the words, “It won’t work. You and father tried once. It won’t work. Please.”

“Your father was a fool! We’re not repeating that mistake, believe me,” she snapped as she pricked her finger. She let the blood bead on its tip, transfixed for a moment by how the flickering candles set the tiny red jewel aflame.

“Don't be afraid, my sweet. Even now, after all you've done, you are still my everything. You were supposed to be me,  _mine_. You will be  _mine_.”

“What… whatever it is you’ve planned, mother, please, I beg you…”

A whine had invaded his tone now, and it set her teeth on edge. She couldn't abide a snivelling brat. No one in her family whined. No one in her family begged. They  _took_. They took what was theirs, just as she was doing now. With a jerk, she grabbed his face roughly with one clawed hand, nails digging into his cheeks as she traced a glyph onto his forehead with her own precious blood, as dear to her as he was.

“Beg?” she snorted, so close that she could smell the sweat and fear boiling off of him, “As we lowered ourselves and begged you to see reason? Years we waited, swallowing bitter shame. YEARS for our reward. But it never came. We gave you all we had. EVERYTHING.”

Her nails dragged red marks down his cheek as his mouth twisted in silent horror. She blinked at the trails of crimson left in their wake, tears pooling in her wide eyes.

“My poor boy. Look at what you made me do! Oh, your lovely face,” and for a moment, she was the picture of motherhood. Concern rimmed her eyes while tears threatened to spill over dark lashes.

Her gaze strayed to the man’s clenched fist and caught sight of that hateful ring. The loathsome wedding band that boasted the pale illusion of a  _marriage_. A mockery, it stood in defiance of her dreams. Her hopes. Her ambition. It kept her from everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she  _deserved_.

Her face hardened and her tone chilled as a sneer painted her beautiful face with contempt.

“But it will heal. It’ll heal, and so will you. After tonight, you’ll be healed and whole and good and  _mine_. Finally  _mine_.”

She sunk lower then, stroking his face, his hair, and placed a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“My poor, sweet child, after tonight, you’ll be  _right_. We’ll be together always and you’ll be my Dorian again. My  _good_   _boy_.”

Dorian shuddered as Aquinea Pavus pulled herself to her full height, her hands already forming strange, delicate symbols in the air.

The ritual had begun.

\------------------------------

“Cullen? Cullen can you hear me?”

Cullen grinned as he straightened himself, grinding his fist into the seemingly perpetual ache that burned in the small of his back.

_I'm not as young as I used to be._

He spared a moment to survey his work. He’d been determined to have the rest of this plot tilled by sundown, but now it seemed that Dorian had other plans for him.

He couldn’t say he minded. He missed his partner, his husband, something fierce.

“That’s what I get for marrying an actual magister,” Cullen muttered as he mopped the sweat from his brow, “Lots of quality time with myself while he’s off saving Tevinter.”  

Being married to Dorian Rutherford née Pavus had been a challenge, but then again, when had Dorian ever made things easy? Their courtship had been... unique. A lopsided smile formed on Cullen’s face as he remembered the awkward exchanges, fervent denials, and fevered kisses that peppered their early days together, back when the Inquisition still had power.

Memory threatened to take him away, and it would have been successful if it weren’t for Dorian’s insistent voice reverberating from the locket that hung around Cullen’s neck.

“You cheeky bastard, I know you’re there. Smirking, I’ll bet, at making me wait.”

Chuckling, Cullen began the walk back to the farmhouse up on the hill, his big mabari, Lionell, trotting happily beside him. He wasn’t making Dorian wait out of spite, not really. He just wanted to be… comfortable. It always helped to be prepared in case Dorian wanted a little more than a friendly chat... which happened from time to time.

_Ok_ , Cullen admitted to himself with a sheepish grin,  _almost every time._

The thought ruddied Cullen's cheeks and quickened his step, so he soon found himself sitting on the steps to the back porch, his thumb clicking the little nub that opened the enchanted locket.

“Fasta vass, Cullen, if you don’t answer me in the next 10 seconds…”

“You’ll what? Hex me all the way from Tevinter?” Cullen laughed at the way the locket made Dorian’s voice small and tinny. He imagined his tiny little magister, stamping his feet and balling his fists in indignation.

“Well, it’s good to hear you still live, Serah Rutherford. And I don’t  _hex_  people,” Dorian sniffed.

“Indeed, Serah Rutherford, it’s good to hear your voice, too,” Cullen replied brightly, playing along with the little Serah and Serah Rutherford game they’d started the night they wed. Even though Dorian remained “Pavus” in Tevinter, here in Ferelden - here at  _home_  - he was Dorian Rutherford. A fact, it seemed, that never failed to make Cullen’s heart beat that much faster each time the thought crossed his mind. “To what do I owe the immense pleasure of hearing your voice?”

The silence lasted just a beat longer than Cullen would have liked.

“Dorian, are you there?”

“Of course I’m here. Where would I go?” came the reply. Cullen’s brow furrowed at the clipped tone.

“Is everything ok?”

Cullen heard Dorian sighing heavily and waited for the reply. When he spoke again, the mage’s voice sounded tired and not a little sad.

“No, Amatus, everything is not ok,” Dorian began.

Worry rushed into Cullen’s heart. Amatus. Dorian only used that term of endearment when things were either very intimate or very bad. He braced himself for whatever terrible news awaited him.

“I apologize, but I must make this brief. There’s, ahhh… There's been a spot of bad business here in Tevinter. Involving my family, you see, and I… well, I can’t remain. I’m coming home. I don’t know for how long, but I’ll be there in a few weeks. We can talk then.”

“Dorian, are you in danger? Do you need me to come..”

“No!” the mage cut Cullen off forcefully. “No, I’m in no danger,” a pause, a breath to collect himself, and he continued, “What did I ever do to deserve an honest-to-goodness knight in shining armor?” Dorian’s voice had softened to a purr, and Cullen relaxed back into his seat on the steps.

“Maker’s breath, Dorian, when you find out, tell me, ok?” Cullen chuckled, “I can’t say that I’m not happy you’re coming home, but, please, if only for my sanity’s sake, be safe on the way.”

“When am I ever not?” Dorian replied with a laugh. Cullen could imagine the impish smile that surely hid under his curling mustache. His heart ached a bit, homesick even though he was at home.

“I’ll hold you to that. And, Dorian?”

“Cullen, I’m afraid I have to go now. The damn fool captain is yelling at me to get on board. I believe this fellow would actually leave without me..”

“Just be careful. I love you.” Cullen brushed the locket against his lips as he always did when he said those words and waited for the usual response.

Instead, Cullen heard the unmistakable sound of Dorian sucking his teeth in annoyance. A strange sort of fear wound its way into his head, cold and ominous.

“Me, too. I’ll be home soon, and all this mess will be sorted. Everything will be whole and good again, my sweet boy. Everything will be  _right_.”

“Dorian, what are you…?” Cullen started, but the magic died. Dorian had severed the connection. The locket would be all but useless for the next day or so as it refreshed its magical energy.

His heart should have been soaring. Dorian was coming home. Under duress, of course, but he was whole and healthy and on his way. Still, that conversation - nothing about it felt right. The odd silence, the clipped tones, the annoyance that Dorian couldn't hide, Cullen could have chalked all that up to the circumstances - likely in danger, regardless of what he claimed, rushing to the docks to board a boat helmed by a grumpy old captain. That could explain the odd mood...

But that farewell had left chills running up and down Cullen's spine. For just a moment, it seemed like Dorian’s voice had twisted into something… else. Something else oozing into his ear and calling him “sweet boy” and promising to make things right.

Questions shot through his mind in rapid succession.

_What did he mean, “whole” and “good” and “right”? Why did he say it would be that way “again”? When did he ever call me “sweet boy”?_

And finally…

_Who was I just talking to?_

The possibilities were all too dangerous, too horrifying to consider. Cullen’s sense of self-preservation kicked in as his steely mind clamped down on that line of thought, offering up a protective layer of rationalization instead.

_He’s tired. Who knows what he’s been through. He’s coming home, you idiot. Maker’s breath, smile!_

And he did, once the cloud in his heart cleared. He smiled sweetly and patted Lionell as he made his way into the house to fix them both a little supper.

But after cleaning up and tossing the ball for the mabari….

After putting out the lights and crawling into bed….

After all was still and quiet, when he was just on the razor’s edge of sleep, he felt that cold fear leaking back into his heart and heard the voice that was and wasn’t Dorian’s hissing just beside his ear:

_Everything will be whole and good again, my sweet boy._

That night, he dreamt of demons wearing his lover’s face as they mercilessly taunted him, chanting as they circled him in the dark, just out of reach:

_Everything will be right. Everything will be right. Everything will be right. Everything will be right._


	2. Behold A Pale Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian returns to Ferelden and has a surprise for Cullen.

Two weeks passed, and that sinking fear, the voice, the dream, and _my sweet boy,_ were forgotten in the daily doldrums. Cullen spent most of his days in the field with Lionell. His evenings were reserved for meals, reading, and the occasional update from Dorian.

Their conversations were always short, never long enough to satisfy, but at least they were something. The need for brevity was clear; much to his chagrin, Dorian was being subjected to general passage, which meant he had no private cabin. He had to steal what time he could to speak through his locket.

“I honestly believe that none of these men have discovered the miracle of soap and water,” Dorian groused one evening. “This boat represents the very pinnacle of filth and foul odor."

Cullen sat on the edge of their bed, his grinning face illuminated in the golden glow of the magical trinket in his hand. Lionell whined as he rested his head on Cullen’s lap.

“No, Nelly, he’s not talking about you, you big baby... Though I hardly know who’s the more childish of the two right now. Honestly, Dorian, it’s a boat. You’ve been on a boat before...” Cullen teased as he patted the big dog’s head.

“Comparing me to the hound now, are we?” Cullen could _hear_ Dorian’s eyebrows raising in pique.

“My love, I would never... Nelly is _far_ more agreeable,” Cullen snorted in response

Cullen expected, no, he _wanted_ , to be on the receiving end of one of Dorian’s famous biting retorts. This playful back and forth with him, it was familiar. It was safe. They’d not spoken of the uncomfortable circumstances that drove Dorian to flee Tevinter since that odd conversation weeks ago. Each time Cullen tried, Dorian redirected or ended the conversation abruptly.

He assumed the mage would speak of it in his own good time. That’s how Dorian worked, after all. Cullen was all too familiar with the hours or days of contemplation that could pass before Dorian was truly ready to open up when he was upset.

A moment's silence passed, and Cullen realized Dorian hadn't responded.

“Dor…”

“Listen, Cullen, I have to go. But we're landing tomorrow, so the journey's almost over. I'll see you soon,” Dorian rushed.

“I'll meet you halfway. The usual place?”

“No. No need. I'm going straight to you, posthaste, as they say.”

“I… if that's what you want?”

“It is,” his tone was final.

“Until then, I suppose. I love you.”

“Me, too.”

The glow from the locket faded slowly, leaving Cullen in the cool darkness of their bedroom.

_Me, too._

That had been his response for this entire bizarre trip. Just “me, too,” never, “I love you,” or even his usual cheeky, “you better.”

Just “me, too.”

That and his refusal to meet halfway… the situation didn't sit well with Cullen. It was… uncomfortable. The doubt settled like a rock in his gut.

The next day, Cullen threw his all into his work. Labor had always been like therapy for him. He found a great many ills could be soothed or forgotten with a hard day's work. By the time the sun set, he was drained and the last vestiges of doubt had been diminished. As soon as he'd fed Lionell and scrounged something together for himself, he fell into his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He was deep asleep, dead to the world, when the locket on his chest lit with its golden glow, and a small, scared voice called out to him.

“Cullen? Cullen, please be there. Amatus, please! If you're there, answer me! Answer me, damn you!” A beat passed, the sound of a long exhale filling the space before the voice continued.

“Cullen, I may not have another chance to… if you can hear me… it's not me. It's not me! It's her. She's going to complete it and I can't stop her. Maker help me, I can't fight her. I'm so tired, Cullen. So… tired and she’s so strong,” Dorian’s voice was small now, afraid.

“Please, when you see me, know it's her. I beg you, strike me down where I stand. Don't think. Don't speak. Just do it. You must, Cullen. Please? For me? Maker, can you hear me?!”

The voice stilled as a wail replaced the words. A hissing static, silence, and then a single, cruel bark of a laugh.

“Everything will be right. I'll see you soon, _Amatusssss_.”

\----------

As the sun was setting, Lionell jerked his great head toward the road, sniffing the air. He looked back at his master quizzically.

The man hadn't looked up from the book he was reading as the two lounged on the porch after work was done that afternoon.

_Ah. His masternose can't smell it yet. But I can. I can and it..._

He raised his snout, moving delicately for such a large beast, and sniffed again.

_… and it smells like him!_

The other master, the gray-eyed, spicy-scented one with the rings that clinked pleasantly as he found the best places to scratch, the one who made the golden master so happy, was back. The mabari’s tail began to wag, fervent little back and forth motions that were full of joy.

But wait. What was that other thing that scented the air? His eyes confirmed the identity of the man approaching them on horseback, but the smell had gone all wrong. With every step closer, the scent twisted into more darkness.

Who was that with gray-eye master? That one smelled of blood and death and sick. Lionell bared his fangs and growled, low and throaty, making sure to place himself between this _thing_ and his wonderful, kind golden master.

“What is it, Nellydog?” golden master asked. The only reply Lionell could give was a bark of warning.

_Careful, please be careful. That’s not gray-eye master. Be careful!_

\---------

“Nell! Lionell, what's gotten into you?” Cullen asked as he followed the frantic dog's gaze with his own, shading amber eyes from the light of the sunset.

A horse and rider were approaching the farmhouse, silhouetted against the red horizon.

That outline was familiar, and Cullen's heart sang as recognition dawned on his face.

Cullen's heart sang, but a tiny voice echoed in his head

_...behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death..._

The warning went unheeded as the big man sprang from his porch, book unceremoniously flung to the ground.

_Remember, everything will be right._

“It will be,” Cullen mumbled as he ran towards the rider backed by the bloody sky.

\--------

_Cullen, stop! Go back, you fool. Listen to the fucking dog. Please, Maker, let him stop._

Dorian watched through his own eyes in disbelieving terror while the scene unfolded before him. Surreal. Wrong. As if he was just part of an audience in a darkened theatre. As if he wasn’t Dorian.

And he wasn’t, not really. He hadn’t been since the night…

_You’ll be mine. My sweet boy. My good boy. Mine._

… his mother had taken control.

“He can’t hear you, but please, keep screaming,” Dorian heard his own voice reverberating around him, bouncing off the walls of his consciousness. He felt his body sliding off the horse, making its way towards the man running to meet them.

He knew her mind, her cruel intent, and horror blanked his own psyche in white panic.

“No,” came his low plea.

A harsh laugh was the only answer he got.

\-------

“Dorian!” Cullen cried with a broad smile as he lifted his man in a great hug and swung him around. “Maker, I’ve missed you.”

As Dorian’s feet hit the ground, Cullen felt arms circling his waist, gripping tightly. He buried his face in Dorian’s hair, long thick waves of dark curls that cascaded over his shoulders. For a moment, he closed his eyes and lost himself in Dorian, intoxicated by his scent, his presence, his everything.

“My love,” he whispered into Dorian’s neck, “My love.”

FIRE AND PAIN

Misery erupted from his side as amber eyes flung open, wide and searching. Dorian pulled away far enough to watch Cullen’s face. Surely, Cullen’s mind was playing tricks with him. Was that twisted sneer really on Dorian’s lips? Were his eyes really so cruel?

PAIN AND FIRE

Cullen groaned and swayed, hands seeking out the source of the pain he felt now. He blinked rapidly, fighting to maintain consciousness despite the

BLOOD AND FIRE AND PAIN

A laugh from Dorian drew Cullen’s weakening focus from his bloody hand and the searing pain in his side. His breathing came in shallow pants now as Dorian’s face swam in shimmering lines in front of him. Something – a dagger? – clattered to the ground as strong hands made weak held onto the mage’s shoulders, sheer force of will the only thing keeping Cullen on his feet.

“Dorian… what… ?”

“I am not your love.” That sneer of disgust. Those cruel, dancing eyes. Foreign. Alien. Unknown.

_You’re not him._

Cullen’s last thought before darkness took him and he fell to the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much wrote three-ish chapters worth of content for this story before giving up and deciding to split it out into chapters. Have three chapters in rapid succession!


	3. Not Your Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finds himself unable to move and in great danger. Dorian takes comfort in his own memories.

Cool grass under his hands.

A chill in the air.

Dying light.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

The sound of someone pulling something along, something heavy.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

_Me. I’m the thing being dragged._

His mind recoiled, folding in on itself as it rejected what it knew. This was a dream, surely. The Fade was creating these sensations for him, a prelude to some nightmare he'd wake from later, covered in sweat and tangled in bedclothes. This had to be one of those horrible dreams that still plagued him from time to time.

_Just a dream. It must be._

A rock dug into the skin of his back, hard and sharp..

Pain! So much hurt! Lights exploded behind his closed lids. The pain wasn’t just in his back…. it was _everywhere,_ like fire in his veins. He'd never felt anything that could even compare. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

 _Not a dream then_ , Cullen thought.

But that meant…

_I am not your love._

… it was all real.

He opened his eyes, trying to struggle.

_I can't…_

His body wouldn't listen to him. He couldn't move.

_I can't. I can't. Maker help me, I can't move._

His eyes, the only part of him that was still his to command, searched wildly, seeking information in the dusky light.

_Nelly!_

The mabari’s friendly face was only inches from his own. Relief settled for a moment before the lurching drag took him further away.

Something wasn't right. Lionell’s face. Something wasn't…

 _No! Not Nelly_ , Cullen thought as bitter reality set in. Those glassy eyes. The strange angle of his head.

His friend. His constant companion on the long, lonely days spent with no one else. Lionell was gone. Just gone.

Grief bubbled up in Cullen's chest, heavy with the knowledge that the loyal mabari likely died trying to protect him from...

_What exactly?_

From him. From the last person Cullen thought he would ever need protection from.

Dorian.

He tried, in vain, to lift his head, desperately wanting to confirm it was indeed Dorian who had his feet clutched in that vicelike grip. He couldn't. He only saw blades of grass passing him by with each spurt forward.

But he _knew_. Dorian was there. Who else could it be? Who else but his love could have done this?

_I am not your love._

Again, the draaaaaaaaag, thump, as his body lurched forward, entering the dirt yard around his work shed. A moment passed.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

Tunic hitched up to his armpits as it was, he felt every piece of grit scraping his back as they moved through the hardscrabble. He couldn't move, no, but he could _feel_.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

Tevene curses hissed into the night air.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

The sound of labored, manic breathing.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

“Almost there, _Amatussssss_.”

The voice that was and wasn't Dorian's, the same voice that assured _everything will be right, my sweet boy_ , rang in his ears and curdled his blood.

Draaaaaaaaaaaag. Thump.

The squealing protest of the shed door as it opened.

_I need to oil those hinges._

Thoughts suddenly fixated on that one insane, mundane detail.

_That squeal always annoyed Dorian to no end._

If he'd been able to, he'd have giggled at that. Such a strange thought to have now.

He felt his feet hit the ground as footsteps carried Dorian away. In the blessed silence that followed, his tired, ragged mind began to float.

A memory, recalled from a time long ago when things were so much more complicated, yet so much more simple. An easy, sun-drenched morning and warmth and laughter and smiles.

And love. So much love. More than he could have asked for. More than he deserved. But he took it all and gave everything back and saw it reflected at him in those gray eyes. Eyes that had felt like home since before either of them knew why.

In another world, dusty boots streaked with dew stomped into place on either side of him. Grumbling joints creaked and a weight landed, sudden and breathtaking, on his gut.

Cullen blinked, the golden hue of a better time sinking into the black depths as dread surged forward. Dorian was straddling him, bent over to bring his face into Cullen’s view. Tangles of black hair fell all around him, blocking out the night sky until darkness and cruel eyes were all there was.

“I’d rather expected some lithe golden god,” he began with a soft tone, “His memories of you are so bright I can’t even look at them… I can’t even...” His voice trailed off. Fingers slid into golden curls in a gentle caress. “So much warmth…”

Those hands twisted then, grabbing handfuls of Cullen’s hair. With a jerk, Cullen was sitting upright, supported only by the chunks of hair gripped in those claws. Pain and fear in equal measures thundered through Cullen’s mind as he watched a smile, too wide, too crooked, run like a gash across Dorian’s face. 

“Let’s end this, shall we?”

Cullen’s head slammed to the hard ground and all was again black.

\-------------------------------

Dorian saw everything through a haze like oil smeared on glass.

He felt the push of the dagger as it pierced Cullen’s side. He saw the shock and confusion filling those honey eyes. He felt the pain of Lionell’s attack, teeth tearing through leather and into flesh, when Cullen fell. He felt the force used to snap the dog’s neck.

He felt the tickle of Cullen’s soft curls as he watched his hands running through that hair. He ached, and she smiled with his own mouth.

“Let’s end this shall we?” she said with his voice and thrust Cullen’s head into the dirt. 

“Mother, stop this! You don't need him. You already have me. I'm yours,” desperation made his voice wild, “We'll go back to Tevinter, and I'll forget. I'll forget about him.”

Still straddling Cullen's unconscious form, Aquinea inclined Dorian's head, listening.

“I'll be… I'll be good, mother. Just like you want. Just like you've always wanted.”

Groveling in the darkness of his own mind now, Dorian sobbed.

“I'll be your good boy.”

His mother tittered then, a shrill sound that stung.

“Oh, Dorian. My Dorian. You're almost there, but not quite. Not quite right. We have to do this, you'll see. And then _we'll_ be right, together.”

The implication wasn't lost on him, even in this pitiful state.

“Together? Mother, what do you mean, together?!”

“You'll see,” she giggled, “You'll see how much you need me.”

Dorian's mind raced, reeling in horror.

_She couldn't. She wouldn't._

But he saw that she could and she would. She'd force her soul onto him. She'd drown him out. She'd force him into this blackness forever.

She'd force him into obedience by thrusting him into cold nonexistence.

Dully, he was aware that she was fighting with Cullen's inert body, trying to heave his dead weight onto his own work table. None of this mattered; his mind reeled with shock as he remembered, too late, her words the day this began.

_Even now, after all you've done, you are still my everything. You were supposed to be me, mine. You will be mine._

_We’ll be together always and you’ll be my Dorian again._

“You’re going to kill him. You’re going to kill him to finish the ritual… to kill _me_.”

“Oh, no, I’d never kill _you_ , my pet, my darling boy. We’ll be one. I’ll complete and heal the broken parts of you, love,” she replied through labored breathing, “Though I daresay my personality and consciousness will be the stronger of the two.”

She was gasping for air, panting with the effort it had taken to lift and arrange Cullen on the table. Heavy breathing filled the silence.

Heavy breathing.

Signs of exhaustion.

_Why?_

_Why is she bothering with all this dragging and lifting? Why did she poison Cullen? Why did she snap Lionell’s neck with her (my) own hands?_

Dorian had thought the use of convention over magic had been to make it personal, _close_. To hurt him more. That was likely part of it, but he could tell that she was fading. So why all the physical labor? And why was she so very exhausted?

 _She can’t use my magic!_ he thought, exultant. _It’s not her body, not yet, and she can’t use it the way I can. As for the unreasonable levels of exhaustion… think, Dorian!_

A sliver of hope lit the little corner of his mind that had become his prison. The darkness receded and shapes formed. Walls. A floor. Shelves. Books. Rows and rows of books. 

_Ah, a physical metaphor for my memories! Delightful. Fascinating, even, under other circumstances._

Dorian ran his hands over the handsome leather-bound volumes of his mind, admiring his own handiwork as he got a feel for the organization.

_Chronological, of course, how else? Oh joy, here’s that time I decided to enchant my hair white for a whole year. I should burn this._

The terror of the unknown darkness he’d been existing in for weeks faded as he worked through the library he’d summoned. It felt so good to have the gears in his brain finally set to working out something productive, something concrete.

_Rilinieus. Gereon. Felix. That damn duck. The inquisitor._

His hand paused, hovering over the first volume bound in gold.

_Cullen. This is the first time I met him._

He pulled it from its shelf, leafing through the pages as he felt a discomfort rumble through his consciousness.

 _Seems someone doesn’t care for this memory,_ Dorian thought, tucking that knowledge away as he strode to the final shelf of memories. These books were bound in deep crimson and lacked any order, stacked haphazardly and at all angles. He loathed to touch them, vile and full of her as they were, but knew he must.

As Aquinea caught her (his) breath, Dorian rushed through these memories, tossing the books behind him when they didn’t contain the moment he wanted to recall. Finally, finally, he found the one that contained the information he wanted - the memory of the ritual.

At the time, he’d been a blubbering mess. Tortured and tired and afraid, he hadn’t really focused on the ritual his mother performed. He was rather more concerned about surviving the ordeal, as he recalled. Luckily, the steel trap of his mind had recorded everything for him. He took the time to feel a bit of pride before paging past the begging and pleading parts of that memory, going straight to Aquinea’s words and actions.

There it was. Suddenly he knew why she was fading, why each movement seemed to sap her energy.

_This body isn’t hers. You can’t force a soul on the unwilling, isn’t that what Mythal told that witch Morrigan years ago?_

She was running out of time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, this is the last of the content I wrote all at once. I anticipate this one being complete in one or two more chapters. I'm honestly still trying to decide how sad I want to make this ending. >.>;


	4. Everything Will Be Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's plan unfolds, and it may take more from him than he thought.

Tired. She was oh, so tired. She'd known the risks inherent in forcing herself into him. She'd taken them on, gladly, because only she could heal her precious, broken son. She'd risk her life, and his too, if it meant that finally he'd be right.

This would all be worth it, more than worth it, if she knew a piece of her would live on for generations to come. Her _magic_ would survive. It was meant to survive. In him and in his children and in his children's children. A wheel rolling forward in time, set in motion by Aquinea Thalrassian Pavus.

The moon had risen. It filtered into the little shed through a single tiny window, a shaft of silver-white light that illuminated the unconscious man's handsome face.

And it was handsome. Even in his wrongness, her son had good taste. She couldn't access his memories of this man, not beyond vague generalities, anyway. Those memories were too bright, too painful to even look at, so she’d stopped trying.

What did it matter? He'd soon be dead, the final sacrifice to make this permanent. To make this body her home.

She smiled, an expression that would almost read as loving if it weren't just a shade too wide, just a shade too crooked. She stroked the man's stubbled cheek with her (his) thumb before running the dagger up his shirt, slitting it open to reveal pale skin below. She watched that chest rise and fall for a heartbeat, dragging her (his) fingers across that expanse of muscle and scarred flesh. He was alive and warm, but Dorian’s mistakes had to be addressed; the debts he’d incurred demanded recompense. The man laid out on the table before her would do that; his death would balance Dorian’s ledger… finally.

“We thank you for this, your sacrifice,”

And her (his) hands set about preparing for the ritual. Runes drawn. Candles lit. A goblet.

A dagger.

Muttering words from a language time had forgotten, the demon’s tongue, she held the goblet in her (his) left hand and the dagger in her (his) right, reaching up and out, moonlight glinting cold silver where it caught. Pretty. Her (his) eyes were fire and ash, grey and red and swirling as she smiled with Dorian’s lips and placed the blade of the dagger against Cullen’s throat.

One quick motion, and she could finish it. She took a breath and felt the muscles and tendons in Dorian’s arm prepare to pull.

\--------------

From somewhere far away, Cullen heard a voice muttering, low and incoherent. He didn’t understand the words, couldn’t make out the phrases, but there was something soothing and familiar about the voice. He was floating, letting the sound of that voice wash over him. It had gotten him through so much, that voice. When he was breaking under the weight of the Inquisition, when the lack of lyrium was crushing him from the inside, when he'd felt useless and lost after the Inquisition disbanded… that voice had always been there to comfort or lash some sense into him. And here it was again, coming to him through this hazy fog of red. Dorian was there.

But, soothing as it was, there was something wrong. Discordant notes marred the silk, snagging knots and tears in the smooth tones. The feeling of floating gave way to the terror of falling then, as his body woke to the sensation of exploding pain and memory. That both was and wasn't Dorian. It was some demon wearing his skin.

And it had him at its mercy.

\--------------

“Shit. Shit. Shitshitshit,” Dorian breathed, muttering in desperation as he pulled those golden tomes from their shelves, scattering them across the floor. He hardly knew what he was doing to his own mind, pulling the volumes of his life from their places and throwing them into such chaotic disarray. He didn't have time to care - behind him, the stage was set, the dagger against Cullen's throat was all Aquinea showed him through his own eyes.

_Cullen._

Enough. This was surely enough. He dragged his forearm across his forehead to wipe the sweat from his brow, sweat that was only there because he thought it should be. He only had a body here because his consciousness dictated it, leashing him to the rules of his world even now.

He hoped those rules would allow this. He was a mage, after all, and if his mind produced sweat just because it thought it should, surely it would also produce magic if he tried. He took a breath and spared a glance at the vision of the dagger, fighting back the horror at the bead of blood that was already forming along its blade. Grey eyes closed, forcing his shaking will to harden, feeling the warm magic pooling at his center.

_Now or never, Pavus. Show her your worth._

He forced that magic up from his center, burning through his veins and muscles as it tore through him looking for an escape. His eyes snapped open, fire and ash swirling at their center. He was nothing but the will of his own magic then, directing it, guiding it out from him as he swept his hand swiftly across his body. A flick of his wrist and that fire was dancing from his fingertips, shooting flames into the darkness beyond his little library of memories, a great fireball crashing into the walls of his own mind.

The flames were pretty, the pain the crashing fireball likely caused Aquinea was satisfying, but neither of those things were the reason for the spell. The wind whipping after the ball of flame, that was what Dorian was after. It blew a gale down the path the magic took… opening every single one of those golden books at once.

For a moment, all was silent as Dorian was bathed in the soft light of all those memories. Images, scenes of the life he’d led with the man who'd burrowed out a place in his heart sprang up before his eyes, fully formed and staggering in their solidity.

_For a templar, you think like a blood mage…_

_Because I just won, and I feel fine…_

_Are you sassing me Commander…_

_Dorian, I can't. It's too much._

_You can, you fool of a man. Here lean on me._

_What do you mean ‘back to Tevinter?’ What about…_

_I have a duty. Surely, you understand that._

_I miss you._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

Every talk, every fight, every kiss, every kind word and gentle touch, from their fumbling, awkward beginning through to this moment unfurled itself before him. The soft light became a crashing wave of gold. He couldn't stand before the power of all that emotion unleashed at once. The library disappeared around him, he felt himself washing away into nothing. But it was warm and soft and easy to go. If it had to end, he could think of no better way than this.

He cast his gaze back, looking through his own eyes to see what he'd wrought. All he saw were amber eyes, seeing into him like no one else had before or since. Like always. His heart lurched then, thinking this was the last time, and he focused on cataloging those eyes, etching into memory the way the gold and the warm brown melted together to make that bright honey colored gaze that had struck Dorian from the moment he saw it.

Cullen was awake. Aquinea was stopped, or at least weakened. It was in Cullen’s hands now. Dorian had done all he could… he could rest now, dissolving into that warm light. It was enough.

It was enough.

A tear slid down his cheek, catching the light like liquid starlight as it cut a path down his face. With the last bit of himself that he could hold together, he smiled softly at that vision of Cullen's worried eyes staring into his own. He didn't have much time, and panic set in as he tried to find the words that would serve as a goodbye befitting the man who had made his life so full of happiness and love, the man who had made him better than he was.

In the end, there were no words. Of course there weren't. As he felt the last of him slipping away, all Dorian could manage were two words, so soft they were barely there.

“Goodbye, amatus.”

\--------------

“No,” she gasped. “No. NO. Nononono. My boy. My boy. You were supposed to be my good boy! What have you _done_?”

Her mind snapped as all that gold rushed around her, into her, through her, tearing her apart even as she wailed her fury and despair into the void.

\--------------

Everything had happened all at once, but time felt like it had stopped. Cullen felt the dagger at his throat, felt it beginning to pull across, meaning to end his life. A power he didn't think he had took over, all instinct and adrenaline, as his eyes snapped open and he reached for the hand holding the blade. Too slow.

_Too late. I'm too late._

But then the press, the cold bite of steel was gone, and he heard the clang of metal hitting the stone floor. The _thing_ wearing Dorian's face stepped back, eyes wide in horror and mouthing words that didn't make sense to Cullen. _My good boy._ Had he heard right?

Dorian's head whipped back, jerking side to side as fingertips ran claw marks down his face. “What have you _done?_ ” it shrieked in a voice Cullen had never heard before - a woman's voice - and then buried those hands in Dorian's hair, pulling frantically. It howled then, as it fell to Dorian's knees and then back against the wall. The sound sent shivers down Cullen's spine. It was… familiar. It was the sound of a mind breaking. The very same sound that had haunted him since Kinloch Hold. Goosebumps rose across his skin and he froze, even as the wailing ceased.

 _What is this insanity?_ He thought, trying to slow the spinning of his terrified mind. _Look, Cullen. What do you see?_

_Dorian._

His body was slumped against the wall where he'd fallen. Limp. Lifeless.

“Maker, no,” Cullen whispered. He moved, too fast, and cried out with pain as stars exploded in front of his eyes.

_Slow down. Hold it together. Just get to him. That's all you have to do. He's just… over there. A few feet. You can do this._

Cullen moved delicately, slower than he wanted but as fast as he dared, inching off that table and onto his knees. He doubted he could stand up, not now, so he crawled across the floor until he was kneeling at Dorian's side.

Thank the Maker, the man was breathing. Shallow and weak, but still he was drawing breath. Culllen cupped Dorian’s face in his hands and tilted his head up, scared of what he might see… who he might see… in those eyes.

“No.”

Those grey eyes, the same ones that had pierced through the layers of guilt and shame Cullen had built up and saw his hidden heart, the same ones Cullen saw smiling at him when he closed his own at night, the same ones that had always been full of fire and life… they were empty. There was just… nothing there. The body lived, but those eyes were dead.

“Dorian! Dorian!” Cullen screamed, shaking the mage, gently at first and then more frantically. There was no response, no sign of life or spark of recognition… only the hollow stare of nothing answered Cullen's frenzied pleas. “Don't you dare. Don't you fucking _dare._ Wake up!” Cullen struck him, a harsh slap to the face of someone he'd have never willingly hurt. Desperation drove him. “Fucking _wake up!_ WAKE UP!” He screamed. He wailed. He begged. Nothing. Dorian's head simply rolled forward as those vacant eyes stared into space.

“No,” Cullen breathed again as he fell against Dorian's chest and wrapped his arms around him. His fingers dug into fabric, and he clutched Dorian as his heart and head began to pull to pieces.

He felt the rise and fall of breathing, heard the thump of that heartbeat. But there was just… no one there anymore.

“You have to wake up,” he , “I can't… I'm not strong enough…”

“Goodbye, amatus.”

Amber eyes snapped open as Cullen pulled away to face Dorian… to meet grey eyes as bright and alive as they'd ever been. Cullen's heart sang at the sight, but he held back, suddenly wary. A tentative hand reached up, thumb stroking the little dark mark that rode high on Dorian's cheek as he inspected those eyes. _Who is in there?_

“Dorian?” His voice shook over the question.

Eyes wide and hands shaking, Dorian reached up to cover Cullen's hand with his own, pressing it into his cheek, then turning his face to kiss the rough palm. A long moment passed as Dorian thought on the question. He touched his face, his body, eyes cast upward in thought as he took inventory and made sure.

“Yes. Yes, I think so,” he said, voice thin and tremulous, “I'd rather thought I was dead, but somehow, here I am.”

Dorian’s attention then turned to Cullen. He watched as Dorian's eyes darted over his body, saw his face crumble at the sight of all the injuries there.

“Oh,” Dorian breathed, gathering Cullen into his arms, “Oh, I am a fool. Look at what I've done. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“Shhhh,” Cullen replied as he held Dorian as tightly as he dared, “We can figure out who owes whom an apology later, ok? Just for now… let's just stay like this.”

“Mmmm,” Dorian agreed as he buried his face in Cullen's hair, “I've got quite the story for you… later.”

“Later,” Cullen sighed as he felt the tension sliding out of his body. Later, he'd learn just what happened here. Later, he'd tell Dorian that the man was never leaving his sight again. Later, he'd bury his dog and curl around Dorian for comfort.

But for now, with the danger over, he just wanted to feel the press of Dorian's body against his own, knowing that it was him. He was really there. He was really there and now everything would be… well…

Everything would be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to apologize for a) taking a while to finish what was supposed to be a prompt and b) this weak ass ending. Ugh.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt I claimed from cullrianprompts on Tumblr:
> 
> "Dorian becomes possessed or enchanted by an evil witch. She orders him to kill Cullen. Dorian's inner self must fight with himself and with everything he's got against the power of the witch controlling him to protect his husband."
> 
> I gave up on trying to make it a oneshot, so it’s become a chaptered story. 
> 
> The characterization of Aquinea (as well as a few choice phrases) were influenced by my reading of sallyamongpoison‘s amazing oneshot, Good Boy. Seriously, go read it. So good.


End file.
